We look across the days of March,
Of knife-keen winds, and barren hills,
To where the skies of April arch
Above the beds of daffodils.
Oh, hearts of Hope! The hours are long,
While melting drifts o’erflood the rills;
Yet do these winds blow, keen and strong,
Toward those beds of daffodils.
The Easter promise cannot fail!
The stone will move when God’s hand wills,